My hair is defaulting to a vertical state.  I’m not complaining.  There was a time when walking around with my hair sticking up would cause waves of shame and humiliation.  My detachment to my hair is so complete I’m caught off-guard when someone takes notice.  “I like your hair.”  Momentary confusion. “Oh yeah, thanks,” and I touch my hair to remember what it looks like that day. 

I’ve  moved on to taking risks with my wardrobe.  In 2015, I proved that I can get away with wearing just about anything.  In my youth, any amount of tightness in my wardrobe was dubbed tacky.  The token phrase is “You’re not leaving the house like that.”  A mixture of vague derision and pity my mom heaped on my insecure teenage appearance.  I was assured that anything fitting my form didn’t “fit right” and looked very unflattering.  Well, that turns out to be mostly her opinion.

Wearing a tight T-shirt & jeans now I’m assured by all audiences that I not only look decent but my body is attractive.  I’ve always had a large chest, so I can see where a parent would want to protect their teenage daughter from undesirable attention in that department.  Unfortunately the side effect was making me ashamed to have breasts at all.  I believed that any hint at my curves was the same as wearing a scarlet A.  All my clothes were baggy and ill-fitting so I could move around with my jiggle unnoticed.

Now I routinely wear skin-tight leggings and form-fitting shirts.  In warmer weather I sport strappy tank-tops and even expose my midriff from time to time.  I have learned to walk tall and proud of my feminine curves.  I have confidence in the strength of my legs and don’t worry about offending a passer-by with the clean line of my ass traced out in charcoal tights.  If they don’t enjoy looking then they don’t have to.  Most people don’t complain.  Sure it’s a different time than my teenage days but the major change is in my perspective.  I don’t care what I’m wearing, as long as I’m comfortable with it.  That’s how it should have been all along.